The Things We Leave Behind
by Suspicious Popsicle
Summary: When Yuri was younger, he had liked to sneak into the second story window of Flynn's room to play tricks. Oneshot. Fluri.


A/N: Title is taken from Oleander's song "Halo:" "We lose along the way/The things we leave behind"

This is actually my favorite of the stories I've written for _Vesperia_.

Disclaimer; The characters and settings in this story are borrowed from _Tales of Vesperia_ and do not belong to me.

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When Yuri was younger, he had liked to sneak into the second story window of Flynn's room to play tricks. He released snakes and frogs into the bedclothes, knotted the ends of all of Flynn's sleeves, hid favorite books and toys, and sometimes lurked in the closet, waiting to jump out and startle his friend.

When Flynn was younger, he had difficulty controlling his temper. Every time he found scribbles on his ceiling or slugs in his shoes or a blizzard of feathers shed by a bunch of panicked, angry chickens (Flynn never did manage to figure out how Yuri got them into his room) he would charge out of the house in search of his so-called best friend, intent on beating the snot out of him.

Yuri had learned to gauge very quickly whether Flynn was irritated, angry, or righteously pissed. Sometimes Yuri would double over in laughter, shaking helplessly before his friend until Flynn lost patience and landed the first blow. Other times, he would take one look at Flynn's expression and make a run for it.

Flynn always caught him. They always fought. Flynn always won.

After the slight had been avenged, after tempers had cooled and neither had the energy to do much more but stare up at the sky, trying to catch their breath, everything was silently forgiven and forgotten. Flynn would ask if Yuri was okay. They would race back through the streets of the lower quarter together. Life went on: silly and infuriating and unchanging.

Everyone knew Flynn's father. He was loud and gregarious and couldn't ever sit still. He was the neighborhood's favorite son, always ready with a joke or a story, or a round of drinks on him. Because he was always quick to help, the people of the lower quarter helped him in turn, keeping an eye on his wife and son when his duties as a knight kept him away from home.

Flynn remembered him most by his hands: flying through gestures as he spoke, gripping the hilt of a sword as he practiced, mussing Flynn's hair or clapping him on the shoulder whenever he came within arm's reach. He had big, square hands, scarred but strong, warm and kind and always, always moving.

The day Flynn learned that his father had died had been a normal day. He had woken up like normal, brushed his teeth and gotten dressed like normal. His mother had prepared breakfast like normal, and they had eaten together just like normal. Then, with a visit from a knight that lasted barely five minutes, the world came crashing down around Flynn.

He listened to the news in something like shock, watching as his mother accepted a tiny bundle of his father's belongings and crumpled to the floor, clutching them and sobbing. The knight had disappeared as quickly as he'd come. Flynn fled upstairs to his room.

it wasn't true it wasn't true it wasn't true it wasn't true

There had been a mistake. It must have been someone else. It must have been, because Flynn's father was too big, too loud, too lively and he was always there, telling stories, and laughing and…and…endlessly in motion. He couldn't be….

The creak of the closet's hinges echoed a second after Flynn slammed his door shut, and suddenly Yuri was there, leaping out of the darkness and pelting him with little paper packets that broke open on contact and showered him with flour. The world clouded over with white and outside the chaos of his thoughts, Flynn could hear Yuri…laughing.

Flynn could see him in his mind's eye. It was that full-blown laugh that would have Yuri bent over, slapping his knees, convulsing too hard to throw another flour bomb, and blinded by tears.

The flour invaded Flynn's nose and throat, choking him when he tried to breathe, and he coughed and sneezed and he _hated_ Yuri for doing this to him, for laughing.

Flynn drew a breath and screamed. He slammed into Yuri, cutting off the laughter immediately, and bore him down to the floor, flailing, lashing out blindly and with all the ferocity he could muster.

Yuri didn't stand a chance against that sudden rage, but he fought back with all he had, confused and angry because it had only been a joke. He managed to slip away long enough to get to the window, but Flynn was on him again in seconds, grabbing at his clothes, punching, and howling.

Somehow, Yuri managed to get him at arms' length. Flynn glared at him for a moment, teeth bared, then shoved, hard, and Yuri fell to the ground outside.

They didn't speak again for almost two months. Yuri had broken his arm, but Flynn didn't know that. Flynn and his mother had to move out of their family's home, but Yuri didn't find out until later.

After that day, Yuri stopped playing tricks on Flynn.

When Yuri was older and had saved the world, he liked to sneak into Flynn's quarters in the castle through the window. His boots scuffed the molding and left dirt ground into the previously clean carpet, and when Flynn would scold him for it and swat the back of his head, he would smile a little with a faint sense of nostalgia. Every now and again, though, he would remember that particular day, and he would be the one to end the argument by shutting Flynn up with a kiss. Because it was okay if they fought, just so long as they made up afterward.

When Flynn was older and had become Commandant, he had learned to hold his temper around everyone except Yuri. And, even though he was honestly annoyed that Yuri left footprints on his carpet and fingerprints on his window and never made the bed when he spent the night, the fights about these things never lasted long, were, in fact, a prelude to something much more important.

Flynn no longer always won when they fought. Yuri didn't laugh so unreservedly anymore.

Things had changed, for better, for worse. Their arguments had grown more heated, more serious over time as their experiences forged their convictions and guided their actions. For all this, however, the bond shaped years ago still held, tested and tempered and shaped into something new, something strong enough to withstand the differences and the similarities, which are sometimes worse.

It was something built on friendship and respect. It was something Yuri refused to admit out loud was love. And it meant the world to Flynn.


End file.
